I can't walk around.
I can't even go to town.
This desk is like a prison.
Which makes me even more driven.
I try to work my tail off.
But sometimes I get a little cough.
I work too hard.
So, I hope I get a little card.
This desk is going to be the death of me.
But later I'll pore a cup of tea.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem